


Turning Season Within

by Tedronai



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, post-BotFA
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 13:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3135566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tedronai/pseuds/Tedronai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seasons will turn and winter will give way to spring, but what will it take to thaw the winter of an ancient soul frozen for so long?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning Season Within

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly didn't mean to get so involved with this ship but here I am, writing a multi-chapter fic in a fandom I haven't touched in ~15 years. Send help.

Bard stifled a groan as he was lowered onto the mattress; he had sustained no grievous wounds and could very well bear the pains of his myriad of cuts and bruises without complaint. Nonetheless he had to admit that they had been easier to ignore in the heat of the battle. Now that it had been hours and the excitement and desperation had faded, as well as the initial euphoria of finding both himself and his children alive at the end of the day, he felt drained and sore beyond belief. He had finally acquiesced to his men’s demands that he rest when he had stumbled stepping over a goblin carcass; he had found that lifting his foot required more effort than it had any right to. They had sent two of the archers, Einar and Torsten, back with him in spite of his protests, and the two flights of stairs between him and his tent had eventually made him glad for their insistence.

There was little room for pride when the options were either being assisted down the stairs, or very likely tripping and rolling down those stairs. And while the men of Laketown had pride in abundance, and Bard not the least of them, he could recognise the difference between dignity and idiocy.

Lying on the mattress, he closed his eyes and in his exhaustion he felt as though he were floating in the darkness. The voices of the people around him in the tent came from somewhere very far away and even the aches seemed muted and distant… Until a light touch on his arm jolted him back to full awareness. Three familiar faces — such dear, beloved faces — peered down at him with varying degrees of concern. The older of his daughters, Sigrid, held out a cup in her hand. Pride won over exhaustion and pain and Bard pushed himself up to sitting position.

“What’s this then?” he asked as he accepted the cup.

“Herbal tea,” Sigrid replied. “To fend off infection.”

The tea, if tea it was, had a sharp and none too pleasant taste, but Bard drank it without a grimace. He listened to Tilda talk about how she had helped some of the elven healers roll up bandages, until Sigrid noted that it was about time to get his wounds cleaned. Sigrid herded her siblings out of the tent as a harried-looking older woman entered and began to peel Bard’s shirt off his skin. Stuck as it was to his wounds with dried blood, the process was slow and betimes painful, and Bard grit his teeth, determined not to voice a word of complaint.

 

He was shirtless and and perhaps halfway through having his wounds cleaned and sewn and dressed with bandages where necessary, when the tent flap flung aside and a tall figure crowded the doorway. The Elvenking cut a majestic figure in his battle armour, even more so than in his regular silks and velvets — Bard was certain he would have looked majestic in rags, or wearing nothing at all — and the sight of him made Gerda, the woman tending to Bard’s wounds, nearly drop her needle.

“King Thranduil,” Bard said, gesturing for Gerda to be at ease. “What brings you here? Is something the matter?”

“I heard you were injured,” Thranduil said as he strode into the tent. His eyes lingered on Bard, and it seemed as though the slightest amount of tension left him upon discovering the man alive. “I wished to see whether there was anything you needed, but it appears that you are adequately cared for.”

“Quite _adequately_ , yes, thank you,” Bard replied with a touch of asperity. The refugees of Laketown might not have the skills nor the knowledge of the Elven healers, but they were doing their best faced with an overwhelming workload and Bard was not going to stand for anyone taking such a condescending tone with them.

Thranduil merely gave him a level look. “I did not mean to offend,” he said calmly. He did not, however, apologise for any possible offence his words had given, intended or not. Instead he leaned closer to inspect a freshly stitched cut on Bard’s chest. “Neat needlework,” he said, glancing at Gerda, who was staring back at him with a slightly bewildered expression. “You have a steady hand, good mistress.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Gerda replied, and if she was flustered by the unexpected compliment, her voice remained steady.

Thranduil appeared to not have heard her; his eyes were on Bard, at once intense and as distant as the stars. “I shall leave you to rest,” he said then. “That is what you need more than anything right now. But if there is aught else you require, send word and if it lies within my power I will see it done.”

The Elvenking seemed to be waiting for a response, so Bard nodded slowly. “Very well. Thank you, my lord.”

Thranduil held the eye contact for a moment longer before nodding as well. “Good night, Dragonslayer.” Then he turned on his heels and strode out into the night, silent as a shadow despite his armour.

 

Bard leaned back against the pillows, wondering what that had been all about. Thranduil could have sent someone of lesser importance to check up on him, but instead the Elvenking had visited him in person. Granted, they had shared wine on the eve of the battle, and Bard had the feeling that this was not something Thranduil did casually, but that thought raised more questions than it answered. _Why?_

“He carries great sorrow within him, I think,” Gerda said, snapping Bard out of his reverie and making him realise that he had voiced the question.

“Does he, now…” Bard murmured, not doubtfully although he did wonder what gave the woman that impression. Of course, many an elf had fallen in the battle as well; Bard had witnessed Thranduil after the battle, walking alone among the ruins. He had stopped every now and then to inspect a body, invariably one in elvish armour, looking at the lifeless, bloodied faces as if to impress them upon his memory for eternity. Bard had not approached him — he had not wished to intrude upon the other’s grief — but now he wondered if he should have. Perhaps the presence of a friend, if he should be so bold as to consider himself a friend to the King of the Woodland Realm, might have been a comfort.

“He was right, besides,” Gerda continued, rising from her stool. “You need to rest. You’re no good to anybody if you tire yourself to death.” She made an impatient noise and shook her head. “That tea should have already put you to sleep, but I suppose you’re stubborn enough for ten men.”

Bard smiled up at her. “Aye, that I am.” But he did feel drowsy and so he didn’t fight as sleep claimed him at last.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil spoke not a word as he left the leader of men. His guards fell in a step behind on either side of him and, sensing his pensive mood, they remained silent as well as they followed their lord across the camp to where the elves had raised their tents. There was a scent of ice in the wind; more snow would be falling before morning. It would be a long and hard winter yet for the refugees of Laketown. Thranduil took some small satisfaction in the knowledge that at least that was something he could help with. They would survive the winter, and come the spring, the rebuilding could begin in earnest.

It was a curious feeling that took hold of him then as he thought of spring, the season of rebirth and renewal. Had he dared to explore that feeling he might have discovered something awakening deep within him, like spring flowers hesitantly pushing out of barely thawed ground after long, cold, grey winter months.

But he did not, for bitter winter still held sway over the landscape of his heart.


End file.
